


calligraphy

by transgression



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Angst, Blaming things on people that shouldn't be blamed, M/M, Self-Hatred, Stress, but also should be blamed, but you know. Whatever, more of a solo than a dual angst fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transgression/pseuds/transgression
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you asked him what his childhood was like, he couldn't tell you what he did in school, he couldn't tell you what his dinners were like, he couldn't tell you what kind of friends he had, and he would doubt if he even had stories to tell. But he could tell you exactly how nerves felt when they died. How hot blooms of heat would wash over him- when he couldn't even take the blanket off, because it helped him feel safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	calligraphy

He asked him for help, and he gave it to him.  


This is an exaggeration; he never asked for anything. Kiyotaka was born to meet expectations he didn’t set, and dealt the cards of a sinner in return. When he looks back he cannot remember anything, save for the moment before he fell asleep, every night, on cold winters and hot summers. If you asked him what his childhood was like, he couldn’t tell you what he did in school, he couldn’t tell you what his dinners were like, he couldn’t tell you what kind of friends he had, and he would doubt if he even had stories to tell. But he could tell you exactly how nerves felt when they died. How hot blooms of heat would wash over him- when he couldn’t even take the blanket off, because it helped him feel safe.  
  
Yet, that goddamned school. He could tell you how many steps he took in that cursed hallway, how the carpet was printed on fibers that hurt his feet, and what angle the clock made between its slow hands, as he tried not to cry and wake them, laying alone in a soundproof room.  
  
But during the day, he was fine. He had people that shared a similar pain, (at least, he hoped, and tended not to think about in detail, so he might keep his sense of kinship,) and none of them could leave. So, a few people died. That’s alright! It’s only a fraction (20%, his subconscious whispers, isn’t a good margin of error for something like this.) But, as long as he stood, he promised that he wouldn’t let any more of his squadron suffer the field’s advantage.  
  
He had never been a good liar.  
  
It had been going well, and his classmate, the ridiculous one, the one he even doubted was a real person, had been paying attention to him a lot! A boy of many theatrics, but he knew he had a weak heart. He wouldn’t trust him with a dollar, somewhere inside of him, the part of him that hated when people smiled because it wasn’t him.  
  
His first thought was “Survival of the fittest,” and he covered his mouth immediately after, even when he had never spoken. She was so weak. He was disgusted with himself in every way possible, in any way he ever had been, and in all the ways he ever would. He thought of the book he had read in his English class, “Lord of the Flies,” and how he had hated the very print it was in for the sheer ignorance. But, he told himself, in a voice he hated, it was ok! It was only one exception to a rule of survival, and they were only kids. He blocked the trial out for later. A bridge to cross at another time.  
  
But, the trial itself was terrifying. The first trial was like a puzzle, or a word problem from algebra. It was just piecing evidence together, and justice. But this one made no sense. None of the variables matched, (another personality?, he thought, a copout if he ever saw one, and on some level he knew he only thought this because he was disassociating from his situation faster than he could correct himself.) Fukawa to Syo to Togami to nothing. He liked it better when he had something to direct his unreasonable frustration on, even if it wasn’t rightful.  
  
His suggestion was his downfall. Tracksuits? It doesn’t even make sense, what kind of comical duo would have matching tracksuits? But it worked, for them. That asshole, that useless trash, that. That! That kid. Of course he paid attention to him! Mondo was probably going out for him, he lies, he lies and he lies like a toddler caught breaking a vase, and he just starts crying all over the nice wood of his podium. He doesn’t even notice until hot, bubbly smears paint his hands when he cups his face. He was nice to him! He was fucking nice to him and he didn’t even think about what that would do. He’s a kid trapped in a man’s body, and he does whatever he damn well pleases and he was nice to him and he hates him for it. He was nice to him too and that same thing in his stomach writhes and hopes it hurts him too when he screams against his chest and he feels it rattle against him and buzz against his face.  
  
And he’s dead. He watches him die, and it isn’t the first time he’s heard the life leave a person, and it isn’t the hardest. But it’s the angriest he’s been in his entire life, and he scuffs his outfit on the concrete and he doesn’t even care, he hopes it rips, because he let himself care about something he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> oops,


End file.
